


A Prize Worth Cherishing

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff? In My Fic? It's More Likely Than You Think, Talent Shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.But, holding Shirabu's hand in his, Yahaba remembers that sometimes it takes a disaster for a miracle to occur.





	A Prize Worth Cherishing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't even know what I'm doing anymore with these, Em, just read it
> 
> Formerly a gift for Em

Everything should be perfect.

Standing on an empty court, Yahaba turns slowly, taking in the bright banners and sparkling trophies. Soft piano music grows around him, whisking him to a night of spotlights and endless applause. A grand stage, a seamless dance, a partner with the voice of an angel. It should be perfect.

But it’s not.

Yahaba’s gaze stops on Shirabu, and he sighs. “You’re late.”

Shirabu doesn’t look up from his phone. “I wasn’t going to come.” His thumb taps intermittently against the screen, scrolling through monochrome newsfeed.

“I know you don’t wanna do this, but at least pretend you’re interested.”

“Very song.” Wrinkling his nose, Shirabu stuffs his phone back in his pocket. “Much wow.”

 _We’re doomed_.

A headache threatens to overwhelm him, but Yahaba takes a deep breath and restarts the song. “Let’s just... focus on the words.”

The words, Yahaba reminds himself, and not the dance that Shirabu hasn’t learned, or the clock on the wall, ticking down to their moment of failure, or the disappointment that will be buried in Oikawa’s voice when he returns on Monday, thinly hidden behind a halfhearted “At least you tried.”

Yahaba shakes his head. Straightening his shoulders, he counts the beat of the song, already late on the first set of lyrics.

“ _Don’t go breaking my heart_.”

Yahaba glances at Shirabu, but, phone in hand, Shirabu barely notices.

Yahaba sighs again. “Shirabu-san, your line.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t go breaking my heart,” Yahaba says slowly, patience already wearing thin.

“Oh.” Shirabu frowns. “But the very next day, you gave it away.”

“Thats not even… Let’s just”—Yahaba stabs the replay button—“take it from the top.”

Shirabu glares, but he obediently trades out his phone for his sheet music.

A spark of hope flares in Yahaba’s chest. “ _Don’t go breaking my heart_ ,” he sings.

“We’re not dating.”

Like rain dousing a fire, Yahaba feels his hope wither and die. “ _Honey, if I get restless_.”

“You’re not kind.”

Bitterly, Yahaba wonders how hard it would be to flee the country after a murder, but, biting down on his sarcasm, voice strained, Yahaba sings, “ _Don’t go breaking my heart_.”

Shirabu squints at his paper. “You take away my dignity.”

“Oh, come on,” Yahaba snaps. “We both know you’re fluent in English.”

Glaring, Shirabu crumbles the paper and throws it at him. “Your handwriting sucks, and you used the wrong damn kanji.”

“I did not. Look, just read the English portion then. I translated it for you to _avoid_ this problem.”

“Are we done yet?”

“Done yet,” Yahaba repeats. The song keeps playing, but the notes grow softer, already coming to an end. “We, we haven’t even started yet. The show is _tonight_. We have a ton of work to do still.”

“So?”

“It took me and Oikawa-san _weeks_ to get this down, and you think we’re done after five minutes?”

Shirabu turns away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not my fault he cancelled.”

Yahaba sighs, but his anger fizzles and dissolves, leaving him cold and tired. An invisible weight presses down on his shoulders. Desperately, he wants to lie on the floor, to forget all about the talent show in favor of a thirty year long nap, but anxiety chews at his stomach, wears down his nerves to only frayed edges.

“I know.” Yahaba steps closer, and Shirabu watches him warily. “Look, I appreciate that you came, okay? I just, I don’t want us to look like idiots out there.”

“You always look like an idiot,” Shirabu mutters. “Why don’t you just skip the whole show?”

“Because...” Yahaba knows it’s a lame excuse, even as the word leaves his mouth. Absently, he picks up Shirabu’s discarded paper and unfolds it, smoothing out the wrinkled edges. “I don’t want to disappoint Oikawa-san. And our performance is already on the program. Everyone will know if I skip out.” Yahaba chews his lip. “This was supposed to be fun, ya know?” Glancing up at Shirabu, he asks, “You know what fun is, right?”

Shirabu flicks his forehead, and Yahaba tries not to wince. “I know more about fun than you do, moron. Nothing about singing in front of your whole loser school is going to be fun.”

Yahaba’s eye twitches at the insult, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Anger never got him anywhere with Shirabu. Instead, he holds out the sheet music, a pathetic offering. “I know you’d rather launch yourself into the sun than sing Elton John, but you’re the only person I know who isn’t busy on a Friday night.” Shirabu tries to distract himself, looking around the gym, anywhere that isn’t Yahaba, but Yahaba waits until Shirabu reluctantly meets his gaze. “Please do this for me.”

Shirabu hesitates, and Yahaba ducks his head, cheeks flaming. Regret washes down his skin like oil. Heart hammering in his ears, he tries to think of something to say, to take the words back, but fingers tentatively close around the paper’s edge and pull it from Yahaba’s grasp.

Shirabu keeps his eyes locked on a dull banner haphazardly hung across the wall.

“You’ll do it? For real this time?” Yahaba bites down on a smile, but his chest floods with relief at Shirabu’s nod.

“I already came all the way out here.” He shuffles his feet, and Yahaba almost imagines the lightest of pink colors Shirabu’s face. “Let’s just get this stupid thing over with.”

“Right, right, so, uh...” Yahaba fishes his phone out and hits replay again, smile finally breaking free as piano keys dance around them. “ _Don’t go breaking my heart_.”

“That’s gay.”

“Shirabu-san, I will murder you.”

 

* * *

 

Heavy curtains limit his view, but Yahaba watches the performers with bated breath. A tap dance follows the magic show. The curvy gymnast does flips on a stage that is neither grand nor quaint yet is intimidating all the same. The quarterback dances in seamless harmony. Behind large glasses and messy bangs, a first year sings with the voice of an angel.

Yahaba unrolls his sleeve, folds it in neat lines up to his elbow, unrolls it again. His watch ticks steadily down, the sound drowned out by the hammering of his heart. His foot taps an anxious beat on the linoleum.

Shirabu reclines against the wall, one foot crossed over the other at the ankles. Yahaba watches him scroll absently through his phone. Short sleeves leave his forearms bare, the black fabric startling against his fair skin. Lightheaded, Yahaba tries to imagine it’s something Oikawa would wear, pretends he hadn’t already seen Oikawa’s outfit for the night a million times over, convinces himself that maybe they’ll be okay without a dance, that a song half-heartedly sung will be enough. They won’t be the first performance to go out there and just sing, after all.

But as the line grows shorter, Yahaba close enough to the curtains to touch the swirling patterns stitched carefully into the thick velvet, the air thins. Before him, Hanamaki and Matsukawa move together in perfect harmony. A girl throws her baton in flaming arcs. Iwaizumi leaves behind a roaring crowd, guitar held carefully at his side.

“Not too late to back out.”

Yahaba jumps.

Shirabu only quirks an eyebrow.

“Not nervous are you, Shirabu-san?” Yahaba asks, but he watches the contortionist with increasing dread.

“You’re hopeless,” Shirabu sighs.

“Shut up—” Yahaba’s voice pitches, but, fingers busy rolling up Yahaba’s sleeve, Shirabu doesn’t comment. Instead, he smooths out Yahaba’s shirt, hands moving up to straighten out his collar and tie.

“You look like a slob,” Shirabu mutters. Gently, he tucks a strand of hair behind Yahaba’s ear.

Shirabu’s fingers linger against Yahaba’s cheek, spreading warmth through his skin, but then suddenly the line is pushing them forward. Bright lights burn his eyes. Shirabu strides ahead, but Yahaba’s feet root him to the ground. A lump builds in his throat. Under the glare of hundreds of eyes, Yahaba feels ice grow in his veins, freezing his lungs until they burn for air.

He can’t do this.

Yahaba takes a step back. His legs tremble.

This was a mistake.

Yahaba turns, but the piano starts. The notes swirl around him, a once familiar friend now turned vicious. Each key claws at his chest. His head spins faster. Words jumble on his tongue in a tangled mess, but the only one that stands out clear rings through his head like a scream. _Mistake_. _Mistake_. _Mistake_.

“ _Don’t go breaking my heart_.”

The voice breaks through the screaming, and Yahaba freezes.

Alone in the spotlight, Shirabu catches his gaze and nods, patient, encouraging.

“ _I, I couldn’t if I tried_.” Yahaba winces at the squeak in his own voice, but Shirabu walks closer, the slightest of smiles curving his lips.

Tugging Yahaba forward by the hands, Shirabu sings, “ _Honey, if I get restless_.”

“ _Baby, you’re not that kind_.” Yahaba’s heart pounds achingly hard, slamming against his ribs, but his head feels clearer. Without thought, the words flow from his tongue, no longer tangled and messy. The lump in his throat shrinks until he can finally breathe again.

Not letting go of Yahaba’s hand, Shirabu leads into the next line. His voice wobbles. The English muddles under the weight of his accent, but, stubbornly, Shirabu keeps trying, swaying with the song until Yahaba moves with him, pulling him closer, twirling him beneath lights of turquoise and gold. There, the lyrics meld together, passing by in a blink measured only in the feel of Shirabu’s skin against his.

“ _Right from the start_.”

“ _I gave you my heart_.” Shirabu’s arms circle his neck, not resisting when Yahaba lowers him into a dip. “ _I gave you my heart_.”

The audience fades away into a blur of distant lights. Pulling Shirabu upright, Yahaba feels the ice melt from his veins, and in its place, a warmth settles, growing stronger until his face splits into a wide smile. “ _Don’t go breaking my heart_.”

Voice low, soft, almost whispered like a promise, Shirabu squeezes his hand and sings, “ _I won’t go breaking your heart_.”

 

* * *

 

“Well that was disappointing.” Hunching his shoulders, Yahaba stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“What?” Shirabu glances up from his phone. “You actually thought we’d win?”

“Well, no...” Tilting his head back, Yahaba watches the stars shine overhead like distant spotlights of a show long since over. “It’s not like we really practiced.”

“And you choked.”

Yahaba glares, but Shirabu meets his gaze with a smirk that takes the venom from his words when he mutters, “You sing like you don’t know English.”

“And what language were you using Yahaba? Mime? Mute?”

Yahaba elbows him.

Ahead of them, the train station rises from the dark like a shadow, blotting out the moon. Steering away from the worst of the crowds, Yahaba leads the way up the stairs, their footsteps echoing against the concrete.

“You Seijoh idiots should be used to losing by now.”

Yahaba considers pushing him down the stairs, but Shirabu already stopped walking. Turning around, Yahaba watches Shirabu shuffle his feet. Viscously, he glares at an undeserving stain on the ground.

“So you’re not upset, right?” Shirabu picks at the hem of his shirt. “Since you’re always losing anyway.”

“Whoa.” Yahaba blinks. “You can actually feel concerned about other people?”

Malice radiates from Shirabu’s skin in waves. Gulping, Yahaba bolts up the stairs, pushing himself to move faster when Shirabu chases after him.

The ground levels off, and Yahaba runs for the door. Leaves crunch under his shoes. His legs burn. “If you kill me, no one will buy your train ticket,” Yahaba shouts.

Shirabu slams into his back. Yahaba hits the station doors, and Shirabu pins down his arms before he can escape. “I already have a ticket, nimrod.”

“I didn’t think this plan through.”

“You would need a brain for that,” Shirabu says, but he lets Yahaba go.

“My brain is overworked,” Yahaba mutters. He rubs his cheek where it hit the door.

Shaking his head, Shirabu disappears inside.

Yahaba follows slowly. Even with the talent show over, his watch still seems to be ticking too fast, and, for the first time in days, as he watches Shirabu navigate the crowds with the same confidence he had on stage, Yahaba wishes this night would last just a bit longer.

“How do you do it?”

“Hmm?” Shirabu slows down until Yahaba is beside him again. “If you mean ‘how do I put up with you’, then I really don’t know.”

“No, you salt factory. I mean...” Yahaba sighs. “Why weren’t you afraid… or whatever.” He feels Shirabu’s gaze burn against his skin like fire, but when he glances at him, Shirabu’s already looking away.

“Practice.” Shirabu shrugs. “Comes with being the starting setter.” He steps out onto the platform, but, looking up at a cloudless sky, he hesitates. “There’s not much time to worry when you’re the pinch server. For five minutes, ten minutes, you’re like a hero coming in to steal the lead for a game that’s already started. But when you’re there at the beginning, everything is unknown. Am I the stronger setter? Will we take the lead? Will I be first to mess up?” Shirabu looks down at his hands, and for a moment in the dying light, Yahaba can see sports tape wrapped around callused fingers and a volleyball fit perfectly in his palms, ready to be set high above their reach.

“You get used to it, after a while.” Self-consciously, Shirabu stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You don’t get over it completely, but...” Glancing at Yahaba, he says, “It’s easier when you’re with someone you trust.”

Yahaba’s chest tightens. He stumbles for a reply, but the whistle of the incoming train steals away his words.

Shirabu gives him an understanding smile. “See ya next time, Yahaba. But _not_ for another talent show.”

“Yeah, yeah, I learned my lesson.” Nudging Shirabu with his shoulder, Yahaba walks with him to the line of boarding passengers. “Just sucks we didn’t win anything.”

Shirabu gives another shrug. “At least you won my heart.”

“What—Really?”

“Psych.”

Shaking his head, Yahaba steps aside. Slowly, the line thins out until Shirabu is the last to leave the platform.

Yahaba waves, but Shirabu doesn’t look back. The whistle blares. Beneath the sounds of muffled voices and closing train doors, Yahaba nearly misses Shirabu’s whisper, soft like the fading stars.

“You can’t win what you already have.”


End file.
